Helena slowed her steps, as a niggling of an idea took root.
Chapter 9
Rule 9
Be sure to evade notice.
As Robert Dennington, the Marquess of Westfield, slipped outside the Earl of Sinclair’s ballroom, he came to a realization—someone was staring at him.
Not that it was uncommon for him to be stared at. Matrons and misses, widows and ladies, there were always glances cast for a future duke. As such, it was not ego with which he thought, as much, but rather an understanding those ladies placed on his eventual rank.
It was also deuced inconvenient. Given his arrangement to meet Baroness Danvers in the last room in the Earl of Sinclair’s townhouse, it wouldn’t do to be seen leaving for an assignation.
A confirmed bachelor and rogue three years past his thirtieth, the ton had well come to accept, and expect, he enjoyed the wiles of a widow.
As Robert strode purposefully through his host’s home, a grin pulled at his lips. In this instance, there was a particular widow whose wiles he intended to shortly enjoy.
Except, while he walked, the sense of being watched increased and mayhap it was the midnight quiet or an overactive imagination, but there was something decidedly, well, unfriendly about the heat on his neck.
Floorboards creaked, and he froze, glancing about. Shadows cast by the lit sconces flickered off the walls in an ominous dance. He skimmed his gaze up and down the earl’s corridors. When a distant footfall reached his ear, decidedly not of the female persuasion, Robert silently cursed, and hurried inside the nearest room, closing the door quickly and quietly behind him.
Silence hummed loudly in the empty parlor and he stared at the wood panel of the oak door until the heavy footsteps passed. Then continued waiting, unmoving, even longer.
A frown pulled at his lips. After his near wedding to Lucy Whitman and her betrayal at his grandfather’s hands, Robert had committed himself to a carefree, roguish existence. One in which he’d quite taken his pleasure. There were no risks of entangled hearts or too-powerful emotion. His heart was safe and his mind clear in terms of his expectations for and of all women.
Still, hiding behind a parlor door the way he had so many times over the past twelve years, a certain restlessness surged through him. Ennui and frustration rolled together at the remarkable sameness of that existence. On the heel of that came his father’s admonishment from months ago, chiding Robert for being like every other lord. At the time, he’d been filled with a seething resentment for his father having lied about his impending death, all with the purpose of forcing Robert’s proverbial hand.
Now, perhaps it was the quiet of the empty room, with the near-discovery moments earlier, but there was something so very . . . hollow about these clandestine meetings. He slowly grinned. Not that he would be in the habit of failing to honor said clandestine meetings. He was bored by life but he still rather enjoyed the pleasure of a woman in his arms. And women had proven with their breathless cries and soft, pliant bodies that they were just as eager.
Consulting his timepiece, Robert squinted, bringing the numbers into focus. He was late. Quickly stuffing the gold watch fob inside his jacket, he slowly opened the door and stepped outside. A cursory search revealed nothing but empty halls and still-dancing shadows. Quickening his step, Robert turned on his heel and continued on.
It was preposterous to believe an unkind stare could be fixed on him. He didn’t have an enemy in the world. He frowned. At least, not one he could identify on his fingers, or in any other sense. Nor did he have to worry about an irate husband. The doddering letch Baroness Danvers had the ill fortune of marrying some years ago had made her a widow in short order.
A memory trickled in of a cursing, furious bed-partner whose room he’d unwittingly stumbled into. His grin widened. Given his near-discovery by the ruthless club owners, he’d taken care to avoid that particular hell. There was still the matter of the knife in his possession belonging to that enchantress, but Robert’s affinity for his neck, and the whole living business, far exceeded any sense of honor for a woman who’d threatened to spill his guts.
Yes, he far preferred his women pliant, welcoming, and not at all shrewish. As such, the baroness made the perfect lover.
Reaching the end of the corridor, Robert came to a stop at the last door and pushed it open.
“You are late, Lord Westfield.” The baroness’s seductive purr sounded from deep inside the room. The lady moved in a noisy whir of satin skirts, stopping at the center of the room.
With a lazy grin, Robert shoved the door closed behind him and turned the lock. “Baroness,” he greeted. With a lush décolletage spilling indecently over the scandalous neckline, she had the look of a fertility goddess. He ran his gaze over her dampened gold skirts. Generous hips and equally generous buttocks, she, with her midnight curls and rouged red lips, fit within all the desirous musings of a healthy gentleman. So, why in this instance, did he feel this . . . ennui?
The small, well-rounded widow sauntered forward. “Do you like what you see?” Her sultry whisper wrapped around him.
Battling down his restlessness, he forced himself to look her over appreciatively. “Indeed,” he drawled, and a teasing smile played on her lips as she stopped before him.
“Are you bored, perhaps?” The promise in her words traveled to his ears.
“And if I said yes?” He brushed his hand over the generous swell of flesh spilling out of her gown, and the lady’s lids fluttered as she swayed closer.
“Then I would say I can think of all number of amusements to help with that, my lord.” She layered herself against him and twined her hands like ivy about his neck, bringing his mouth down to hers.
By the force of her kiss, and the fingers she roved along his back, the lady was an inventive piece who commanded his attention. Or she should. Yet, as he returned her embrace, the sense of being watched froze him.
As he distractedly trailed his lips down her neck, Robert opened his eyes and looked about the room for . . .
From within the thick, gold brocade curtains, a pair of furious, and most decidedly unfriendly, eyes met his.
Robert stiffened. Long ago he’d enjoyed the thrill of performing for wicked voyeurs. He’d not for some many years now. Even so . . . the faint flesh of pale fabric and the lady’s flared eyes hinted at an innocent, and the distance between them did little to conceal the spark of antipathy that lit her eyes. Then she disappeared behind the thick curtains.
All desire died a rapid death. Robert drew back.
“My lord?” the baroness whispered, blinking wildly at the sudden loss of his attentions.
“There is . . . business I’ve only just until now recalled.” Which was not untrue. One thing was certain; he’d little intention of being trapped by an innocent hiding in the curtains. And the sooner he had the identity of the little schemer, the safer he’d be from being trapped by that one.
The widow opened and closed her mouth, and then a full-sounding laugh spilled past her lips. “You jest.” She shot her fingers out, and rubbed him through the front of his breeches. “I have even more important business to discuss.” Lady Danvers dropped to her knees, all the while toying with the placket at the front of his pants.
A sound that had the hint of disgust emerged from within those curtains and Robert shot his gaze across the room. And he, who’d believed himself long past blushing, felt a dull flush climb his neck. He staggered back a step, removing the baroness’s determined hands from his person, and jerked the lady to her feet. “I am afraid our meeting will have to wait until another time, Baroness.”
His almost lover pursed her lips and in that moment there was nothing remotely pretty or pleasing about her pinched features. “You might find I’m a good deal less obliging after this, my lord,” she snapped.
“My apologies,” he murmured, and on a huff, the baroness sailed to the front of the room, and took her leave in a magnificent show of fury. She slammed the door in her wake wit
h such force it shook the foundations.
Robert took three long strides, and again turned the lock. With a healthy dose of aggravation, he turned around and folded his arms. “You may come out, my lady.”
For a long moment, the curtains remained still. He peered for the interloper who’d gone and ruined his bloody enjoyment. Another wave of frustration stirred. “Or . . .” He stretched that one word out in slow, lazy tones. “Are you waiting until your mama arrives before flinging yourself into my arms? I am afraid if those are your intentions, my lady, then your efforts are wasted.” Though in fairness, a prickle of apprehension burned his neck. For in his bid to gather her identity, he may very well have stepped neatly into her trap.
The young lady shoved aside the gold brocade and stepped out. Robert squinted in the dark, as something pulled at the edge of his thoughts. There was something familiar about the figure who stood, partially cloaked in shadows. Who is she? “I assure you, my lord,” she said sardonically, “the last thing I wish, want, or would ever do is bind myself to one such as you.”
Robert blinked, her voice hauntingly familiar. And the stranger’s spirited reaction brought him back to another woman. Another night. Inside a gaming hell. I don’t care if you are a duke or prince or the King of England . . . He gave his head a hard shake. Impossible. He’d apparently had more champagne than he recalled. It was the only thing to account for seeing the minx who’d captivated him inside a gaming hell . . . inside an earl’s parlor. Suddenly, tired of being toyed with like a mouse caught between the cat’s paws, his patience snapped. “Madam, have I done something to offend you?” he demanded tightly.
“Indeed, you’ve done far more than that,” she bit out as she strode forward, and with each step that brought her closer, the sense of familiarity strengthened, until she stood before him. Taller than most, clad in pale yellow satin, the woman had the look and tones of a lady. However, with the space now gone between them, he took in the detail that had escaped him—the large scar down the right corner of her cheek. The air left him on a whoosh. “You.” How had Ryker Black’s mistress come to be here now? Questions spun wildly inside his mind.
“I see you at last have placed me,” she said dryly. “I must say, I am impressed, my lord. I expected you’d less familiarity with scarred ladies.” Her lip peeled back in a sneer. “Or mayhap it was me whom you forgot, altogether?” Had those words been uttered by any other woman, there would have been a coy search for platitudes and assurances. From this one, there was nothing but an admonishment, lined with disgust.
“I did not forget you,” he said, a muscle jumping at the corner of his eye. No sane man would ever lose the memory of her lips, and the satiny softness of her skin. Desire slammed into him.
“It matters not,” she said with a cool indifference that effectively doused his ardor. “Though I don’t expect one who ruins women, and meets married ladies in his host’s home, has much honor. I expect you have, at the very least, some.”
Fury ran through him, and he compressed his lips into a hard line. “Are you calling into question my honor, ma’am?” he demanded in terse ducal tones his grandfather would have been impressed by.
The woman snorted. “I expect if you cannot tell that I am, then I should also call into question your intelligence.”
“Furthermore,” he bit out. “She was a widow.” Vastly different than a married woman, whom Robert decidedly did not dally with.
“Ah, that makes your clandestine meeting here all the more . . . honorable?” she sneered.
Robert narrowed his eyes when the woman tugged off her white gloves and beat them together, bringing his eyes to her long fingers and the marks at the top of her hands. The stinging rebuke died on his lips as he fixed on those scars.
Following his gaze, she colored and hurriedly yanked on her gloves, concealing her hands once more.
“Helena from the club,” he said, with wry disbelief, still marveling through her sudden reentrance in his life.
She pursed her lips, and said nothing.
Arms still folded, Robert drummed his fingertips on his sleeve. How did one of the whores at the Hell and Sin Club come to be here in the Earl of Sinclair’s ballroom? The man must be dafter than the late King George himself to have let a woman with Helena’s spirit go.
“I’m not a whore,” she snapped.
“I did not say you were,” he said in lazy tones, even as his neck went hot. He’d merely thought she was.
“You didn’t need to,” she shot back.
Fair enough.
Wise to not continue this odd discourse along that decidedly unfavorable, never-to-end-well path, he turned a question on her. “What do you want?” For inevitably, all women wanted something. And Lucy Whitman had taught him a healthy dose of circumspection for women of her station. Inevitably that something was invariably marriage and money. Though the two went hand in hand.
The young woman jutted her chin up. “For you to do right by me.”
Ah, so there it was. As it always was. A hard, humorless grin pulled at his lips. “Ah, you expect marriage, then?”
“Marriage to you?” She snorted. “I’d sooner dig Boney’s dead body from the grave and drag him down the aisle than tie myself to one such as you.”
One such as him? He should be equal parts offended and horrified. Except . . .
It was hardly every day that he, the future Duke of Somerset, received that manner of response to the prospect of marriage to him.
The lady narrowed lethal eyes on him. “Are you smiling?”
Distantly, he recalled the impressive fury of her feet as she’d buried them in his side. “Not at all,” he said, smoothing his features.
She leaned forward and peered at his mouth. If he hadn’t effectively disarmed her, and claimed possession of her knife, he’d be worried about another attack.
Robert raked his gaze over her person. “Is this about your blade?” he asked, when she still said nothing. “If so, you needn’t have gone to the trouble to don that dress.” A rather hideous gown, too. “And steal into the earl’s home.”
Mimicking his movements, the young woman folded her arms at her flat chest. “Is that why you believe I’m here? To retrieve my knife?” A knife which he really should have found a way to return. “A weapon you really should have returned,” she said in an eerie echo of his very thoughts.
“I will see it done,” he said, in the tone he used to settle his fractious mount.
The woman studied him, tapping her slipper in a distracted staccato on the hardwood floor. Then she narrowed her eyes all the more. “Why, you’ve no idea what I am doing here?” She uttered that accusation as though he should know. The vixen made a sound of disgust. “Then, why should you?” She scraped another disgusted glance up and down his person. “You hardly would know what transpired when you left.”
His stomach tightened. What transpired when I left? In a display of total self-absorption he’d not given another thought of the woman at the Hell and Sin beyond the fleeting moments that trickled in of her memory. “What happened?” he asked quietly. “Have you become a gentleman’s mistress?” If so, surely that was a station a good deal safer and preferable than that of whore in a notorious gaming hell?
She snorted. “And I’d sooner wed you than become a gentleman’s plaything.”
Which given her earlier desire to drag Boney’s bones up and march him down the aisle was indeed saying much about her views on being a man’s mistress.
“I am here because of you,” she said, at last shedding some still-vague light on her presence here. “After you left the Hell and Sin, it was . . .” She grimaced. “Discovered that I’d been concealing your presence in the club.”
He stilled. “You were sent away for it,” he said quietly.
She gave a terse nod.
Once again guilt assailed him at his own total self-absorption. He’d not given another real thought to the woman beyond curiosity at her spirited reaction.
; “I was sent to live with my . . .” Splotches of color suffused her cheek. “F-father.” She stumbled over that last part, and then glowered at him, daring with her eyes for him to say a word about that particular detail.
He took in the fine quality of her garments and her reluctant admission. She was a by-blow. That was how she’d come to be here.
Fire lit the green of her eyes. “I expect you to do right by me.”
All previous guilt immediately died. A wry smile formed on his lips. Inevitably they all came round to the matter of marriage. It would seem even this feisty woman.
The lady pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “I’ve already said I’d—”
“Sooner wed Boney’s dead bones,” he interrupted dryly with a wave of his hand. “Yes, I remember all that.” Frustration again gripped him. “Why do you not say what it is you’ve come to say, Miss . . . ?”
“Black. Helena Banbury,” she supplied, and by the ice in her gaze, this was not the first time he’d been in possession of that particular detail.
“Given your appearance here,” in the midst of his assignation, “you’ve gone to a good deal of trouble to discover my whereabouts and follow me here.”
She sighed. “How arrogant you noblemen are,” she spoke, more to herself.
He chafed at being lumped into the rather unimpressive category where she’d filed away all other men. Then, given his deplorable indifference toward her thus far, he’d no doubt, in her estimation, rightly earned that less-than-distinguished place.
“I overheard you speaking to your lover,” she said, still tapping her foot in a grating rhythm.
“Overheard me?” He’d been at the back of the ballroom, away from prying eyes, and the baroness’s invitation had been a barely there whisper. If he were of a mind, he’d correct her on the matter of his being any lover, past or present, to the baroness. Thanks to this one’s poorly timed interruption.
The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides Book 1) Page 12